


The Homeowner's Association

by dontleaveportland



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Comedy, Fluff, M/M, Neighbor Derek, Stiles is a New Home Owner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:32:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontleaveportland/pseuds/dontleaveportland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working temporarily at the Beacon Hills Police Department after graduating from college, twenty-two year old and new home owner Stiles Stilinski is loving his life. Kind of. Sort of. Not really. But he learns to appreciate it after facing off against the demanding Homeowner's Association.</p><p>Or that time Derek didn't know how to use words. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Homeowner's Association

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been in my head for the better part of the last four months, and I finally decided to just sit down and write it out as a short story. A huge thank you if you're reading this, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> *** Huge thanks to all of you that have read the fic since originally posted, I really appreciate all the kind words and support! I haven't had much time these last few weeks to respond to comments – although I did find some time to try this [tumblr](http://dontleaveportland.tumblr.com) thing? – but know responses are coming!

Twenty-two year old Stiles Stilinski rushed down the stairway of his two story town house.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles said, almost tripping over a pair of running sneakers on the last step in his haste to get to the front door.

Fresh out of college, Stiles was in love with his life.

Okay, his _dream_ life. He was in love with his _dream_ life. But the real one and fictitious one were set to collide any day now.

It was the first business day of August, and Stiles was already ten minutes late in leaving for the Beacon Hills' Police Department, where he had been temporarily employed for the last three months of summer working as the main desk clerk.

The job itself was pretty easy – Stiles kept track of the online file management system, digitized any incoming or archived physical paperwork, kept the public informed of safety concerns and outreach programs via the department's social media profiles, took phone calls, etc.

Essentially he ran the external and internal communications of the office.

Over the last two weeks, Stiles's father had pulled him aside to discuss making the position permanent, but that conversation always left Stiles shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

He appreciated his father's approval, but it was just that: a father's approval. Stiles probably could have set a few archive boxes on fire and the Sheriff would have looked on with pride.

Okay, well probably not, but the point was – his father was not to be trusted. To some degree, Stiles would always be a little boy in the man's eyes, and that meant he needed to move on to something more challenging and self-fulfilling.

Sure, some of the other officers spoke well of the changes Stiles had made, but they were probably just trying to butter up his father, or him, which was technically still an effort to butter up his father.

Stiles shook his head as he threw his book bag over his shoulder and made for the front door.

He would rush to the office as safely as possible, and then he'd spend his lunch break and the rest of the night searching for new job opportunities.

Unfortunately, he was about two weeks of continued job searching away from dipping into his savings, so the pressure was on.

The only reason he had been able to afford the town house was because the original owner had died in the upstairs bathroom–

Stiles paused as he stood directly in front of the house door, hand lifted as it held the key in the dead bolt to secure the door.

He narrowed his eyes as he stared at a small yellow half-sheet taped to the door's glass, something he had missed when he originally stepped outside.

 _"Dear Sir or Madam:"_ Stiles read to himself, scanning the note for important info, _"This notice serves as... parking your car against the... prohibited... please review the original parking instructions provided at the signing... Signed, the Homeowner's Association."_

Stiles snorted as he pulled the note from the glass.

Stiles never received any information about a Homeowner's Association at the house closing, though his realtor had been a little less than helpful.

The man kept inviting Stiles out to personal dinners, apparently he had just broken up with a longterm boyfriend named Tony.

Stiles would admit that he encouraged the attention just a little bit – only to get some savings on the house, which... Okay, that made him kind of a scummy person, but savings!

"Whatever," Stiles said, releasing a deep sigh as he hurried down the front steps toward his Jeep.

If the Homeowner's Association didn't want him parking against road traffic, he could deal.

It was just a few extra steps anyway, a little extra cardio never hurt anyone.

"Hey, man!" Stiles yelled, catching sight of his surly lumberjack neighbor, "Morning."

Stiles nodded his head slightly as he stepped behind the wheel of his vehicle.

Except for a more narrowed glare, Stiles received no response from the other man.

Stiles expected as much though. The man was a Hale, a clan known for keeping their social entanglements limited.

Like, they might say something to you if a mountain lion was attacking your throat, or maybe if your shirt had caught fire.

But even then, it probably wouldn't be very helpful. Something like, "Hey, you've got a lion on you," or "Hey, you're on fire," no doubt.

At least, that was how the famous feud between Laura Hale and Lydia Martin had started.

Laura even had a bottle of water in her hand at the time, but the woman reportedly had simply shrugged her shoulders and said, "Baking soda's better. Stop, drop, and roll, Martin."

Stiles bit his thumbnail as he pulled away from the curb.

Maybe he would call the area's Homeowner's Association, somebody needed to let them know that whoever was designing their notice slips was pretty bad at their job.

***

That Sunday found Stiles sleeping in late. Really late. Like no breakfast, no lunch, and no TV cartoons late.

He scratched his bare stomach as climbed down the stairs to head for the kitchen. A hearty dinner was in order.

Except Stiles never made it to the kitchen, at least not immediately, because he found another yellow notice from the Homeowner's Association taped on the front door's glass.

Stiles sighed as he opened the door to read the new note.

These people worked weekends? That note definitely had not been there last night when he came in late after assisting in the documentation of Laura Hale's and Lydia Martin's arrest.

Apparently the two had taken their fight to the streets. _Literally._

They caused a ten car pile up after Lydia slammed on her breaks, reportedly to avoid hitting Laura Hale biking across the road. Strangely, other witnesses reported that Lydia's car seemed to head straight for the other woman. The bike seemed to support the counter claims, since it did not survive the impact.

Stiles figured Lydia was the fortunate one in the squabble though, because he's not sure she would have seen the next light of day had one of the drivers behind her not called the police.

She was already missing clumps of hair when Officer Parrish brought the two women in.

Stiles tested the limits by humming "Bad Blood" while taking their information and detailed accounts down.

Stiles huffed as he read the note in his hand.

 _"Dear Sir or Madam:"_ Stiles read, _"This notice serves as... trash and recycle bins should be placed... feet between them and... feet from the house... curb can be used as a measurement guide... Bins should be collected within twenty-four hours of... Signed, the Homeowner's Association."_

All right, they didn't like where Stiles was leaving his trash and recycle bins. Apparently they were too close to the lumberjack's house, but also too close to one another. They also didn't like that he wasn't putting them away right away.

Stiles shrugged his shoulders as he thought the note over. He could understand how this might be an annoyance to some anal-retentive people.

Oh. Those  were probably the only type of people working for a Homeowner's Association.

But in his defense, he had been in a rush Thursday night to get them out, and then he forgot about collecting them Friday night. And Saturday had just been one big blur.

Stiles could do better. He wanted to fit in with the neighborhood, especially given that it was his first house. Plus, a lot was riding on his ability to make this work – he would be damned if he would make his father regret cosigning the house for him.

Stiles straightened his shoulders as he stepped outside the house to retrieve the bins.

He tried to wave at the unfriendly lumberjack, who was yet again watching him fulfill the Homeowner Association's requests, but the man ignored him per usual. Actually, the lumberjack's face had seemed flush, and Stiles briefly entertained the idea of checking on the man to see if everything was all right.

***

Six days later, Stiles sat on his kitchen counter, wearing only boxers as he ate Lucky Charms and watched cartoons on Hulu.

Who needed cable or a dining table? Nobody said Saturday demanded those things to make for a good day.

As he hummed the chorus of "I'm in Love with My Life" during the commercial breaks, praying the power of suggestion was a real thing, he noticed that a yellow half sheet was sticking out of the pile of mail he had brought in and ignored Friday night.

Swallowing the cereal down and pushing the bowl to the side, Stiles jumped off the counter and walked over to the pile sitting on top of the microwave.

Stiles rolled his eyes as he saw the familiar serif typeface of the Homeowner's Association. They couldn't even switch up the fucking font from time to time?

 _"Dear Sir or Madam:"_ Stiles read, _"This notice serves as... the house numbers on your mailbox... barely legible... Homeowners should retouch mailboxes every twelve months... Signed, the Homeowner's Association."_

Stiles's stomach churned with annoyance as he took in the note's meaning. The association wanted him to either repaint the house numbers on his mailbox and retouch the box, or just repaint  everything.

Stiles smiled to himself as he briefly considered painting the mailbox neon pink. Or maybe bright orange, with "BAZINGA!" or stickers of his favorite super heroes on it.

Stiles shook his head as the thought passed, reality setting in as he remembered the importance of being a successful homeowner. He was pretty sure there was some leftover paint used for the mailbox in the garage.

Stiles looked back over to his cereal bowl. After confirming that all of the marshmallows had been eaten, he stepped out to the garage to find the paint.

A little over a half hour later, Stiles stood up from the mailbox where he had been hunched down securing the metal box back onto the wooden stand.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm as he took in his handiwork.

Okay, maybe it wasn't the most professional job, but Stiles still felt it looked pretty good compared to some of his neighbors. Maybe he should leave his note from the Homeowner's Association in their mailboxes.

At the sound of a labored wheezing coming from behind him, Stiles turned to find his neighbor watching him across the driveway.

"Hey!" Stiles said, smiling brightly back at the man and gesturing toward his new mailbox, "What do you think?"

Stiles tilted his head as he realized the lumberjack looked almost frightened of him.

The man's eyes seemed to widen, followed by some sputtering before he turned around and headed back for his own house.

"Sheesh, it's not that bad," Stiles said, staring back down at his mailbox as he rested his hands against the band of his boxers.

***

Stiles lifted his head to the sky and groaned as he climbed the steps up to his porch, already aggravated with the yellow half sheet taped to the front door.

Maybe Stiles should consider calling his father for advice. Had he allowed this to happen by giving into the Homeowner Association's demands too quickly?

 _"Dear Sir or Madam:"_ Stiles read, _"This notice serves as... several complaints received about the state of your dress outside... Please refrain from wearing undergarments only... such laws still apply to public areas... Signed, the Homeowner's Association."_

Did he really just receive a reprimand note for offending the association with his body?

"Christ," Stiles said, shaking his head.

Stiles turned slightly at the sound of his lumberjack neighbor clearing his throat. Realizing the man was watching him, Stiles waved the note in the air.

"Can you believe these guys?" Stiles asked, shaking the note again, "When I was a kid, I used to pee in the bushes outside the house to avoid having to go inside and break up tag or whatever game was being played. And I wasn't hiding behind the bush, I just aimed for it. What the hell kind of notes did my father receive for that?"

Stiles waited for a response from the man, but once again received little more than widened eyes.

The Hales were strange people.

***

Two days later found Stiles slamming the fifth note from the Homeowner's Association down onto his father's office desk.

"Do you know what this is?" Stiles asked, voice shaking with rage as his father looked on with a concerned face.

"Uh..." his father said, reaching forward to grab the note, "I don't."

"Let me tell you then," Stiles said, lifting the note up before his father could grab it, "Dear Sir or Madam – and who the fuck addresses letters like that anymore, Pops? Fucking misogynists, that's who – This notice serves as the official request that you repaint the shutters fashioned to your house. The neighborhood adheres to a strict maintenance schedule, and the retouching of your windows is past due. We appreciate your cooperation in resolving this issue. Signed, the Homeowner's Association."

Stiles paused to regain his breath from the reading, chest still heaving with anger.

Turning back to his father, Stiles took in the man's alarmed face, feeling completely justified in his anger until the man's wide eyes and thin lips were broken by laughter.

Lots of laughter. Really hearty laughter.

"Why is this funny to you?!" Stiles asked, aggravation growing, "This is my _fifth_ notice from these psychopaths, dad! I'm going to be kicked out of my own house for breathing the wrong way one day."

"Stiles," his father said, trying to regain composure over the laughter, "We don't have a Homeowner's Association in Beacon Hills."

"What?" Stiles asked, confusion flooding him.

"Not like that at least," his father said, still shaking as he reached up to wipe tears from his face, "It's a prank."

"What–" Stiles said, pausing as he suddenly remembered the events leading up to and then immediately following each note.

"The lumberjack!" Stiles said, voice deepening with both betrayal and shock.

"What?" his father asked, finally regaining seriousness.

"No time to explain, Pops," Stiles said, rushing out of the Sheriff's office, "Thanks for your cruel help though!"

***

Before making his way home, Stiles stopped at his father's house to quickly sort through the attic.

Several boxes later, Stiles grinned manically over the tightest pair of jeans he could find – a pair he hadn't worn since the ninth grade.

After a few well placed scissor cuts, Stiles walked back to his Jeep with the shortest jorts known to man in hand. Chubbies had nothing on Stiles.

***

Stiles's smirk grew as he watched the lumberjack's black Chevrolet Camaro pull onto their street, ready to park _with_ traffic no doubt.

"It's on, fucker," Stiles said, turning on the high ladder he had pulled from the garage to reach the storm shutters above the garage door.

He grinned to himself as he grabbed the paintbrush wresting in his back pocket, already wet with paint, and brought it up to make a few strokes against the wood.

Stiles knew what he looked like. He had specifically spritzed himself with the outdoor hose to ensure he glistened to look just cheap enough.

His grin deepened at sound of a nearby car door slamming shut, followed by the pounding of feet running up his driveway.

"Stop!" a male voice called from behind him.

"Hey, man!" Stiles said, turning leisurely toward the voice.

Stiles had to resist the urge to laugh outright at the lumberjack's scandalized face.

"Get down from there!" the lumberjack yelled, head glancing frantically around the neighborhood.

"What?" Stiles asked, sporting his best face of confusion, "I was instructed by the Homeowner's Association to paint these by the end of the day. I can't just stop because you're telling me to."

"I wrote the note!" the lumberjack said, waving his hands frantically to gesture Stiles down from the ladder, "Will you just come down from there?"

" _You_ wrote the note?" Stiles asked, voice filled with mock surprise as he crossed his arms over his bare torso.

"Yes," the lumberjack said, nodding, "I just wanted you to stop parking so close to– Oh."

Stiles smiled as the other man's face flushed red, a hand raising up to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck.

"When did you figure it out?" the lumberjack asked.

"Not soon enough, unfortunately," Stiles said, stepping carefully down the first half of the ladder and then jumping down to the ground the remainder of the way.

Stiles chuckled as the lumberjack winced, and he raised a hand to shake in greeting.

"I'm Stiles," Stiles said, as the lumberjack took his hand.

"Derek," Derek/lumberjack said, shaking his hand, "Derek Hale."

"The last name I knew," Stiles said, nodding, "I've booked your sister enough times down at the station to _not_ not recognize eyebrows like that."

"Oh," Derek said, taking his hand back to rub at his neck again, "She's kind of the black sheep of the family. The rest of us follow the law pretty well."

"Right," Stiles said, voice dry, "So everyone in your family represents themselves as a false organization in order to cleanup the tough streets of rusted mailboxes?"

"No," Derek said, frowning slightly despite the sheepish expression, "I just... I'm sorry about that. At first I just wanted to correct your parking. And then when it worked, I thought it was a good opportunity to fix that ugly mailbox I was forced to look at day in and day out."

"And maybe those ugly shutters?" Stiles asked, crossing his arms again.

"Yeah," Derek said, frown lifting slightly as he nodded, "And to put some hustle into your waste habits."

"I get that," Stiles said, nodding, "Sort of... I mean, I guess I just wish you had come and asked me about those things yourself. I would have been happy to comply on my own. I'm actually new to being a homeowner, so I actually would have appreciated some insight on things to lookout for."

"I–" Derek said, before cutting himself off and shaking his head.

"You what?" Stiles asked, curiosity overcoming him.

"I..." Derek said, face and voice hesitating, "I wanted to, but every time I started to approach you, it seemed like you were on your way out, or you were just..."

"Just..." Stiles said, leading Derek forward.

"Just..." Derek repeated, face flushing red, "In your underwear! Like all the time. Always. And it made me nervous."

"Oh," Stiles said, before bending over with laughter.

"What's so funny?" Derek asked, scowling down at him.

"Nothing," Stiles said, shaking his head as he tried to regain composure.

He was no better than his father.

"Whatever," Derek said, jaw clenched tightly, "I'm sorry for the deception."

"Hey!" Stiles said, looking up to find Derek turned around and already walking briskly down the drive, "Wait!"

Derek paused silently at the end of the drive, turning back to Stiles with a blank expression.

"I'm sorry for laughing at you," Stiles said, shaking his head, "I know that's not cool – unlike _some_ people, who will remain nameless but should know that I am better than him."

Derek tilted his head in confusion at Stiles.

"Right, getting off track," Stiles said, "I just found it humorous, because boxers are like my go to, and you couldn't even say that. You were really blushing back there, and it's just strange because it's such a normal thing for me. As soon as I'm home, the pants come off. I usually start unbuckling as I'm pulling into the driveway."

"I'm aware," Derek said, voice dry and face blank.

"Right," Stiles said, chuckling again, "Well I didn't mean to embarrass you, I just thought that it was cute."

"I'm not cute," Derek said, words thick as they were forced out through clenched teeth.

"No," Stiles said, shaking his head, "Never. I just said that the situation was cute. Not you though, you are very manly and rugged. I've been calling you the lumberjack in my head since I moved in."

Derek's face lifted with a small smile at the confession, and Stiles felt something inside him pull at how beautiful it was.

If he was honest with himself, the whole ordeal had been entertaining. And he wasn't that mad about it, since it had given him a reason to officially meet Derek, the most attractive lumberjack he knew.

"So," Stiles said, suddenly feeling sheepish himself standing in front of the man wearing such short shorts, "It's cool if I've misread the situation, but I was kind of wondering..."

"Wondering," Derek said, eyes trained on an area of Stiles's abdomen marred by paint.

Maybe he wasn't misreading the situation. He could do this. Maybe. God damn those Hale eyebrows. And dark features in general.

"I was wondering if I was going to have to wait for a sixth note from the Homeowner's Association for you to ask me out, or if you were going to do it yourself," Stiles asked, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck.

Derek offered an assessing once over of Stiles before responding.

"If you lose the shorts, I would consider helping you paint your shutters," Derek said, "And then maybe you would consider joining me at my house for dinner."

"Deal," Stiles said, grinning widely as he reached down to unfasten the jorts.

"I meant _lose_ them, lose them!" Derek said, face returning to its original frantic and scandalized expression, head glancing wildly around the neighborhood again.

"Don't worry," Stiles said, shaking his head as he continued to grin, "I'm wearing boxers."

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider sharing your thoughts to let me know how you enjoyed the fic!


End file.
